


Cold Waters

by DefyingDeath



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dark! Thranduil au, Incest, M/M, Obsession, Plot What Plot, Power Play, Thranduil can be a vampire sometimes, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4251666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefyingDeath/pseuds/DefyingDeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like a dark root festering in his mind, Thranduil's obsession toward his son, Legolas, only grows. Yes, it's wicked, but to him it's his salvation. How could he, the Great Elvenking of Mirkwood, let himself be dragged beneath icy currents? The answer – lies within his son's gaze. Is Thranduil's desire unrequited, or does Legolas share the same feelings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Waters

[“But my heart isn’t simple or straightforward. It’s a complicated mess of wants and needs... soft, rough, and everything in between, an ever-shifting precipice from which to fall.”] —Tess Sharpe

As if a dark root had begun to grow in his mind, an envy grew in the Woodland Realms’ greatest King – Thranduil. He had watched over the years his son bond with the fiery Silvan Elleth he had taken in thousands of years ago. In grave ire, he watched her surpass many in skill, and saw that Legolas begin to favor her. He though of it no more than friendly affiliations. 

But as the years continued, the Elvenking noticed the Prince fawning over her with every patrol spent together

So, in distraction, Thranduil drank and reveled with his people in silence, simply watching and waiting. And any but his son who looked upon him could see the visage marked by years of loneliness.

In his halls, he displayed no warmth toward his son at all, only strict, cold formality that was nothing more than the treatment of his other subjects. That was how it should be – nothing more. Oh but how that was all a terrible lie, and thus he hated himself. He wished nothing more than to claim Legolas as as own, to ravish him, to surpass all boundaries of blood ties. He wondered if this was some sort of wicked fantasy for him, conceived due to his loneliness, his icy relations a mask to veil his affection for his son. Legolas was his soul, his sin.

When an opportunity rose to convey his feelings, Thranduil thought, he would take it. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moon had risen thrice, pale and faint above Arda. To relieve himself of the day's heavy toils, Thranduil had retreated to his chambers in spite of his paperwork his clergy had given him. The night was deep, the hour was late, and the candles in his room flickered weakly. 

He was waiting for someone. 

In the dark atmosphere of his private chambers, he cast off his ornate crown and heavy outer robes, then sat in the corner upon his chair of carven wood, distractedly thrumming his fingers against the armrest. Chin to the ceiling, he fingered the wine bottle on the table by his side as a distraction. And he waited.

The quiet was suddenly pierced by a stiff knock at the door. With a curt, “enter," he was barely taken aback as Legolas himself entered the room. 

Thranduil fixed Legolas with a mirroring stare, not moving from where he sat. He had asked for the young Elf earlier, and through narrowed eyes, he painted the graceful Prince with his gaze. His son had traded his daily attire with a simple teal tunic, a more casual garb. Thranduil wondered if the Wood-Elf wished for attention, for it brought out the fairness of his skin and hair even further; and it mirrored the tidal shade of his bright blue eyes.

“Legolas.”

“My liege.” 

...

“Why don't you get the two of us a glass of wine,” Thranduil admonished. It was neither a question nor invitation. It was an order.

“As you wish, my lord.” 

Legolas’ face was then shielded from view – out of fear or spite Thranduil knew not – as he moved to the side table and poured his King and himself glasses. 

Thranduil kept his intentions as vaguely hinted as possible; he brushed his own hands against the Legolas’s slender fingers as he reached for his own drink, and loosened his satin robe below his shoulder that implied only one thing. However, if Legolas noticed he didn't show it. 

Thranduil grasped his son’s small plait with two fingers. “May I?” he asked.

Legolas’ lips parted in a ‘yes’, and Thranduil moved to reside just behind the lithe warrior. He carefully unbraided the plait, allowing nimble fingers to delicately run through the fine strands. His fingers got lost in the sea of flaxen hair, and he smiled. The lure was impossible to resist. “Your plait was untidy. I just saved you the trouble of undoing it yourself.” 

Under his ghost-like caresses, he felt Legolas shudder. At last, his son’s unbraided tresses cascaded down broad shoulders like a golden waterfall, and Thranduil stepped back to admire his work. He withheld a breath – his son was the epitome of grace.

Legolas flushed under the stark pressure, and ran his own fingers through his hair. 

“What did you wish to discuss with me again, my lord?”

“The relations between my Captain of the Guard and yourself,” Thranduil said much too quickly. To distract his son, he drowned his glass seductively, allowing his tongue to lazily graze the rim – Legolas’s eyes flitted nervously. “I wouldn't allow you to come to visit me during the lonely hours of night, if not to discuss something of importance... would I? Unless I enjoy your company, though of that I have no need for (which was indeed a lie). 

“I see,” Legolas said slowly. His eyes floated to the door, but rested upon his father once more. 

“Do go on,” Thranduil pressed. “Answer me.”

Legolas waited a few seconds to regain his composure, then nervously clasped his hands behind his back. “T-Tauriel fought well today, my lord, and that is all I can say,” he dithered. “I hold nothing more toward her other than her being a sentry to this kingdom.” He took another sip of wine. “Now, I have answered your question... am I correct?” When Thranduil did not answer, again came the nervous sipping. “So, let me take my leave of you.”

At this, Thranduil rose from his chair. The candle had been lighted. That fierce envy that had weaved around his mind like thorns had only grown. “No.” A lazy smirk found its way on his lips – languid dangerous. Tauriel... a name loathed to pass through his lips. “Do you deem yourself capable of bearing such such ‘feelings?’ I know better. What you feel for her is not... real.”

Legolas seemed uncomfortable then. “I am sorry. I shall stay away from her now at your command.”

“Yes you will,” the Elvenking murmured, rancor evident. “But I don’t want apologies.”

“Then I haven't the slightest clue how you want me Adar.”

The cold visage cracked in ire.

“I want you on your knees, choking on your own blood. I want your name on my lips, pleading: ‘Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.’ Do not tell me you are sorry – I will show you sorry.”

Legolas’ mixed expression of confusion and fear only brought something more powerful surging within Thranduil’s chest. He wanted the young Elf for himself. That was clear now. 

“Do you know what is real?” Thranduil strode forward, phantom-like, his silver hair slicing broad shoulders. He shot his son a dark, daunting grin. Legolas nodded no. 

“This.” With a smirk, he shoved Legolas into the shadows. 

He allowed no chance for a reply. Thranduil wrapped his arms around the younger Elf from behind; and gripped his son’s neck with one hand, his cold rings gleaming against the ivory skin. In one fluid motion, he had turned Legolas’s head so that they resided face to face – the act was too quick to respond to. 

Their first kiss was Thranduil’s sacrament, sweet and full of long unexpressed yearning. Legolas’ response came seconds later, as he processed the movement, then awkwardly allowed the elder Elf more entrance. The kiss deepened and they clung to each other – Thranduil far more possessively and with much more force – their tongues communicating their desire far more eloquently than words ever could. 

For Thranduil this was war. With every touch, he saw the battlefield, and he fought for dominance. Their eyes met for a second, but that second was enough to drag Thranduil beneath the surface. Legolas’s eyes had turned vair and brimmed with hidden depths. 

Aye, he was drowning in them.

Only when the Prince collided with the wall behind did Thranduil yield briefly. He smiled in mild amusement, and looked into Legolas’ eyes, seeking permission.

“My lord, the servants – Legolas whispered once he caught his breath – will they not talk?”

“Let them. They do little else. They will call this depravity, my dear, and they are not wrong..."

Wary excitement sliced through the haze of uneasiness. Legolas complied with a stiff nod and Thranduil began to undress him, pulling off his tunic and planting whisper soft kisses wherever he found skin. With a dreamy smile he let his eyes linger for long moments on those honey limbs that seemed to glow in the flickering candle-light, observing the flexing muscles of his Greenleaf. He felt Legolas’ breath, tremulous upon his neck, his hands light upon his arms, as he nibbled his way down the valley of the younger Elf’s unblemished chest, caressing his nipples into hard points with roving fingers. "I'm – uh!" Legolas whimpered, then flushed as if ashamed – Thranduil wanted more, needed more. Yet a little to his surprise, the younger Elf’s hands lay idle at his side. Those cerulean eyes had taken on a faraway quality.

“You belong to me,” said the Elvenking thickly. Pulling the young Elf closely to him until Legolas could scarcely draw enough air to remain sentient, Thranduil said, “And you are mine and mine alone.”

Succumbing to the desire of skin against skin, Legolas breathed, “Do you think we could be lovers?” Those blue elven eyes glimmered in pools, in worry. He is probably intoxicated, the Elvenking tried to convince himself. Yet... 'so am I.’ Thranduil looked up to the ceiling. 

“Most likely not, but we can pretend.” 

Legolas’ lips tightened into a twisted smile, taut with nervousness. At this, Thranduil stole an opportunity and pinned seeking hands together, forcing them above his son’s head without much needed force. Legolas squirmed under him, much to his annoyance. Leaning down, he kissed the rabbit pulse beating upon his son's neck just above the temple. He nuzzled just below the sacred spot. And he bit down – hard, severing the delicate flesh beneath him, the red haze of want clawing desperately at his throat. 

The fire descended.

With a yelp of pain, Legolas struggled slightly. “Wha – ?” But the Prince stilled as slender fingers gripped his neck into an iron hold; and Thranduil lapped the swollen spot fervently, the metallic taste like cherry wine in his mouth, the scent of blood wafting through the air like wild roses. 

As he pulled back, a tinge of blood was left near the corner of his lips. For an instant, the Elvenking resembled a cat, eyes half-lidded, sly in his wants and needs. And with a snarl, he crashed his lips against Legolas' once more, and basked in his empowerment as the young Elf looked up to him wide-eyed. "Ngh – hm!" At the back of Legolas' throat came a strangled cry, like that of a wounded animal. Thranduil's eyes had become like frosted glass – Legolas was the prey.

With this in mind, Thranduil caught his son’s burning gaze, and with a "humph" of triumph, wiped the red away from himself, and his son's now tainted mouth. Legolas now lay gasping for breath, and his eyes had closed from exhaustion. 

“Why so hostile, meleth nin?” 

“You bit me!” Legolas spat in disbelief. “That hurt!” Thranduil’s sudden carnality seemed to have led the lethargic Elf into a state of mistrust. Yet, it mattered little now. 

“You deserved it,” said the Elvenking nonchalantly.

Then, without giving warning, his hand cupped Legolas’s crotch and palmed it none too gently through the leggings. He knew no one had ever touched the younger Elf there in all his eternal life, and... no one else ever will, Thranduil thought darkly. Legolas immediately thrusted in that deliciously helpless way with a startled “Ah!” An immediate rising heat traveled from the younger elf’s abdomen, to his neck, encasing him like fire upon his cheeks.

Thranduil snarled. Never had he desired this moment over any other: his son succumbing to his touch, to the flames. The simple reaction was... expected; but never in all his eternal life did he predict such... innocence. 

Oh how that all was to change.

Legolas moaned straight into his mouth, and Thranduil pulled away to smirk at the response, kissing his nose, and then rubbing their cheeks together. He looked upon what he had started – what he had done when he had lighted the candle. 

He was enjoying every second of it. 

Thranduil tugged loose the laces of Legolas’s breeches, and pushed them down his slender hips slowly. Legolas then swiftly removed his boots as Thranduil’s lips sought his once more – the elder Elf unrelenting. Legolas said nothing still, but closed his eyes, and tried to shield his face from view; and Thranduil knew the elf was nervous having had his fine dignity stripped from him along with his clothes. 

So instead, he slid his hands down. He moved fluidly from Legolas’s chest to his abdomen and then lower, lower. He saw Legolas’s expression collapse a split second before his body reacted, jolting forward with a long, low moan as Thranduil grasped his length and began to carress it. His breath came in short gasps, his hands clutching weakly at the folds of Thranduil's robe, holding on as if Arda had begun to spin.

Even though he himself was still fairly clothed, Legolas was a mewling mess, hot breath exhaled carefully through his wide open mouth. Fine hands clawed desperately for anchorage at the wall behind him.

“No, we can't have that can we?” Thranduil breathed. 

At this, he swept his son off his feet, and Legolas was wrapped within a refuge of strong arms. 

What happened after that had a dreamlike quality:

With elegance, Thranduil moved to the bed and laid the younger Elf down, watching as Legolas’ eyes riveted in eagerness as he began to undress. Thranduil revealed his body slowly, letting the folds of his robes fall to floor to be picked up by servants later; he watched in fascination at the flush that crept up Legolas’ porcelain cheeks, the arousal that lengthened under his gaze, at the soft moans that sighed from his lips. 

He withdrew for a second. From behind his wardrobe brought forth some rope (he was prepared just for this moment). “Let me tie you up.”

“Adaaaaaaar?” Legolas questioned as his eyes met the cord that was to be bound ‘round him. Still slightly intoxicated from the drink, his gaze helplessly wavered to where Thranduil fastened it once – twice – three times around his wrists.

With a resigned growl Legolas stilled, feeling the bite of the elven rope as it dug into his skin. 

Thranduil ran his hands up and down his son's well-built body, loving the trembles and escalating heat radiating in shame. The softness of the Prince's skin was so much like his own. Yes, his son was perfect. As the playful carresses continued, Legolas only had the strength to clench his teeth and throw his head back in ecstasy. Being bound limited his actions. He jerked against the restraints as a hand traveled along his abdomen, ghosting small circles around his arousal, and at this he uttered a guttural cry of surprise. He swallowed, and opened his eyes. Thranduil was eagerly watching his reactions to this treatment through half-lidded eyes, taking pleasure in the uncontrollable whimpers and whines. 

"Don't – Legolas panted – tease."

Thranduil smirked, but did not touch him there again.

Beginning to pant a little faster, the Elvenking instead guided his nimble hands down Legolas' spine; and he traced the contours and ridges until his son writhed with pleasure under his weight. Legolas buried his head into his shoulder, unable to do naught as Thranduil grasped his hips possessively. 

“O Valar!” Legolas cried as Thranduil began to knead and massage his buttocks, and his cheeks tinged pink as his thighs were parted with grace. Thranduil held his son closer to his own lithe body; limbs entwined, reverent touches exchanged. 

Leaning in closer, he could smell Legolas’ unique, alluring scent – the scent of the forest: beech and oak. Oh how he craved it. 

Legolas’s tresses splayed across the sheets like rays of sunlight. And Thranduil smiled as he relished the sultry groans he elicited from the prince. His own citron hair danced across his son’s arousal, silken thighs, hips, causing him to inflame with lust he had never known before now. His desire was more than lovemaking – but claim over his son, ownership.

He inhaled a deep breath. It was becoming more difficult to disregard the movement of flesh as Legolas pressed and grinded against him. 

“You're so beautiful all spread out like this, just for me,” Thranduil breathed into Legolas’ neck. The scent of dried blood filled his nostrils, and his mind was overridden with red haze. He licked the mark there – his mark.

“Adar?” Legolas managed to moan. Thranduil could taste the desperation in his son’s voice.

“Hmm?”

“Forgive me! Forgive me – !” 

This was the Elvenking’s undoing. 

Thranduil’s eyes swirled with a darker, more feral gaze. Between the side wedges of the bed, he drew a silver dagger that glinted in the poorly-lit room, and in one swift movement had slashed the Prince's bounds to mere shreds. He then cast his weapon and rings and aside; and raised two fingers to Legolas’ cherry lips to which he earnestly began to suck quickly. With a blissful sigh, Thranduil then carefully scissored the awaiting entrance, and through playful patterns of swift movements and dawdling motions. Legolas squirmed at the sudden invasion, wantonly bucking in an attempt to gain more friction. “Please!”

With a grunt, Thranduil then positioned the younger elf safely ‘neath his own weight, the blunt of his shaft grazing against Legolas’s slick hole. The younger Elf gasped, his eyes sightlessly finding the ceiling, and his slender hands moved to rest upon his Adar’s cheek as Thranduil slowly pushed inside. “Please, I am at your mercy,” said Legolas through ragged moans. “Take me. I beg of you.” 

Thranduil’s eyes threatened to retreat to the back of his skull as he complied with his son's wish. His heart rate escalated to a dizzying rate as Legolas was filled. But he managed to keep them open. Driven by his darkest, most spiteful desires, he rolled his hips in such an emphatic manner. He began to move, rocking himself forward slowly at first, as though testing the waters, letting the rythmn of their lovemaking be decided by the Elf's incoherent murmurs. 

Thranduil was dragged down the current of desire.

Legolas groaned in sheer bliss. Tears trailed down his cheeks as his walls were stretched, his heat breached – Thranduil moaned out his name zealously. 

This was an insomniac dream. Thranduil's brow furrowed, bruising his son by the waist, pulling himself in – out – riding the waves languid at first until his son was a mewling mess, the clamorous echo of flesh against flesh a euphoria. Once the young Elf had accustomed to his body, Thranduil increased his pace, watching Legolas’ limbs flailed helplessly at the blissful intrusion, as the young Elf was deflowered repeatedly, breached over and over again, a thin sheet of moisture covering the freshly-exposed flesh of his erection. Legolas' pleas and cries worked their way within Thranduil like water into lungs. 

“Look at me,” demanded Thranduil. 

And Legolas did, through a glint of longing – whether it was the effect of the wine, or pure emotion – Thrandul could not tell. 

His son was beautiful – a reflection of his own otherworldly features. And then, unexpectedly, as his own hair brushed Legolas’ erection, the young Elf collapsed into the sheets, essence soiling Thranduil’s stomach, leaving a trail. “O Ada!” Legolas gasped aloud. It was only then that Thranduil reached his peak. At that... word. Spent beyond measure, Legolas gazed at him with great reverence in his eyes. A tumult of unknown emotions within those eddying blue waters. 

With one last groan, the Elvenking convulsed uncontrollably, his own essence spilling inside the young Prince. The musk of their act filled the air. A reminder of what wickedness they had contributed to. 

In silence, Thranduil yielded and pulled out delicately, as not to rouse his son further. The ecstasy had begun to fade. This was a dream – Thranduil was hardly here, could hardly believe such acts had conspired. 

The Elvenking then leant, a single, faint caress of his lips against his son’s swollen lips. 

“I love you,” he breathed. The crash of the wave against shore. The cold had been replaced by warmth that only drew him nearer to his lover. "You are the closest thing I have, my Greenleaf. There was never a day when I have not loved you."

Legolas, however, was too dizzy and exhausted to reply properly. “Me... as well..."

“Drink,” Thranduil ordered as he withdrew. Shaky fingers grasped a glass of wine. “You are forgiven, meleth nin and you are – mine.”

Legolas smiled ruefully, then obeyed and drank. 

Thranduil moved to his wardrobe to find another garb to wear. And as he began placing his rings upon his fingers once more, the sudden crash of a wine glass penetrated the air. He looked back at the bed, only to find that Legolas had slipped into a drunken reverie; and that the scarlet substance had begun to spill unto the floor, seeping.

He left Legolas’ exhausted form there for now.

Yawning, he opened a window and dressed once more. His head was warm, his skin was soaked, and his throat was dry from calling his son’s name. The moon still hung bright above the rim of Arda, but the night was so black. There were no stars. 

Legolas must be cold, Thranduil thought. Regaining his regal stature, he moved to the bed.

He threw his robe over Legolas with care, and planted one chaste kiss on his forehead. For a second he marveled at his son’s porcelain complexion and that hidden sea ‘neath long lashes. He then tidied the room up to the best of his ability as not to leave a trace, and curled up next to his son – no, his golden nymph. And both fair beings – creator and creation – lay there in the dark, one asleep, one very much awake.

Thranduil evaded sleep. With sleep came the end of this dream. 

The aftermath of their obscene act would cease to be remembered, for surely the wine would muddle Legolas’ senses the next morning. Thranduil knew his son would have to be found alone, in his own bed, left with naught. Especially the recollection of the past night [he would tell Feren that Legolas had too much wine]. 

At the thought of this, Thranduil’s heart sank further. He had been so enthralled by the opportunity that his mind had surpassed all consequences. Although it had felt so real...

This night didn't count. 

But he would remember it for ages.

**Author's Note:**

> Ada – Daddy  
> Adar – Father  
> Meleth nin – My love
> 
> Omg I can't believe I actually spent time writing this! Wow! Well, on to chapter 2? This was merely a warm-up for a modern AU Thrandolas I hope to post soon, but I like where this is going.
> 
> As you know, us writers do this for free, so once in a while I would love feedback or perhaps a kudo if you enjoyed it. Thanks much! Follow me on tumblr @Thrandolas-elves so we can cry about Thrandolas together!


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